


Falling...

by TheRedJay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC, Falling..., M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, St Bartholomew's Hospital, jimlock, season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedJay/pseuds/TheRedJay
Summary: "Well, good luck with that," Moriarty said. For a split second, Sherlock was confused to what he meant: then he saw the gun.It could end it two ways. Sherlock could step back, let Moriarty shoot himself in the head. Alternatively, Sherlock could stop him, save Moriarty, and give himself more time.





	1. A Way Out

**Author's Note:**

> In this, Sherlock doesn't tell anyone where he's meeting Moriarty, and he doesn't have any plans to fake his death. It starts on the roof of St Bart's and goes from there. It's based at the end of season two, because let's pretend the writers didn't kill off one of the best villains of all time.  
> The plot of this is kinda... weird, I guess. Since it was a spur of the moment thing and yeah. There's my excuse.  
> Hope you enjoy anyway, please leave Kudos etc...  
> ~ Jay xx

"Well, good luck with that," Moriarty said. For a split second, Sherlock was confused to what he meant: then he saw the gun. 

It could end it two ways. Sherlock could step back, let Moriarty shoot himself in the head, and avoid getting any brain matter on his coat. If that happened, he'd be left with no choice but to go along with Moriarty's plan - then it'd be  _his_  brain matter on his coat.   
There was no ending where Sherlock wouldn't save his friends. 

However, there was the other ending, where Sherlock could stop Moriarty from killing the only person who could call off the hit-men: himself. Though if Sherlock did manage to get the gun away from him, there was the possibility he'd just jump - like he'd intended Sherlock to. Still, it'd give Sherlock more time... 

He hastily grabbed Moriarty's arm, keeping the gun at stomach level. They pulled to and fro, fighting for it; Moriarty trying to move his wrist to point the gun at himself, while Sherlock pulled it away again with the hand that wasn't keeping his arm low.   
Deciding his grip on the gun was too tight, Sherlock stopped pulling toward himself, and rather turned it to the side. Not expecting it, Moriarty was slow to react. This allowed Sherlock to pull the trigger. He performed hastily, aware he'd had to take a maximum of ten shots before the cartridge would be empty.   
It was a poor move to use such a widely known pistol. Having been used in multiple forms of media, the Beretta 92 FS Inox was recognisable, even to those who weren't experts like Sherlock.   
Seven shots: and the gun was empty.

Moriarty took a step back, letting Sherlock hold the empty gun. He set his jaw, taking a deep breath which made his chest visibly rise and fall.   
A teasing smile slowly crept onto his features. 

"Would you like someone to jump with, is that it?" He asked. God, he had a mocking comment for everything. 

"Call off the hit-men," Sherlock ordered, watching Moriarty carefully. 

"Oh! Oh, ok!" Moriarty replied with false enthusiasm. "Wait," He paused, "What's the magic word?" He tilted his head, a sweet smile on his lips. 

"I'm done playing your game." Sherlock stated angrily, stepping toward Moriarty. "I'm ending it."

"That's the thing, Sherlock: the game doesn't end. At least, not until your life does," Moriarty answered. He straightened up, not faltering under Sherlock's approach. 

"It ends when you call off those hit-men," Sherlock argued. Moriarty furrowed his brow, averting his eyes to the ground. Even when he looked back upward, it wasn't toward Sherlock, it was to the side - imitating thought. 

"No... No. No it doesn't." He said, finally looking Sherlock in the eye. "You see, even if you hypothetically managed to somehow get me to call them off: I'd come back. I always come back, Sherlock." Moriarty worked his way around Sherlock. He circled him fully, Sherlock not moving from where he stood, though keeping a close eye. 

Once more, he stood in front of Sherlock. A silence between them.   
It was Sherlock's move.   
He didn't want to jump, not if he didn't have to. 

They were back where they started. The only difference being that Moriarty no longer had a gun to pull on himself.   
The scenario where two men stood before each other, but either one walked away, or none. At least that was how Moriarty saw it.   
To Sherlock, it was the scenario where there was a way out. There had to be a way out. Though he didn't know how... 

"I know I said to take your time, but... This is  _boooring_." Moriarty rocked back on his heels, looking around. His face depicted his disinterest in watching Sherlock try to think. "I expected things to be at least a little quicker," He muttered. 

That was it! 

Moriarty always expected everything. He thought through all of the endings, all of the scenarios, all of the outcomes. The only way to beat him was to do the unexpected. For example, pointing a gun at a bomb in a swimming pool.

So what was unexpected? What would catch Moriarty off guard? There had to be something...

Sherlock looked at Moriarty. His eyes scanned his face. His brown eyes were wandering around the rooftop, his mouth in a frown of boredom. He noticed Sherlock looking at him, focusing his eyes back to him, raising his brow in question.   
After a while, his brow fell in exasperation. 

"What now?" He questioned flatly. Sherlock reached a hand to the side of his face. "If you're thinking about killing me, be my guest," Moriarty stated, clearly assuming Sherlock was planning on breaking his neck, " _Anything_  would beat standing here watching you try get out of dying!" He leant forward, grinning like the madman he was.

Sherlock said nothing. He simply slid his hand to the back of Moriarty's neck.   
Moriarty's smile faded, his brow furrowed, as he moved his head slightly to glance at where Sherlock's hand had gone to.   
He opened his mouth to ask a question or make a stupid comment; Sherlock's mouth against his stopped him saying from anything.  

It was one-sided, vulgar, and  _so_  wrong in  _so_  many ways.   
Yet Moriarty didn't react at all. He didn't push him away, didn't step back, didn't kiss back; he didn't even tense.  
His lips were so soft, which made it worse - since it wasn't supposed to be enjoyable, it was supposed to be horrible, similar to the man he was kissing.

Sherlock pulled away. 

"Still your move." Moriarty sounded as if nothing had happened at all. Sherlock leant in to kiss him again, but Moriarty placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to stop him. "Don't kiss me again." He looked at Sherlock confusedly. 

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. Moriarty peered around him at the ledge. He pointed to it with a small smile. 

"Because you have a suicide to commit," He stated in a hushed voice.

"Hmm, I don't want to." Sherlock replied, leaning slightly on Moriarty's hand. 

Moriarty looked at him. He squinted his eyes. Then turned his head to the side. Then turned back and leant forward, still looking at Sherlock through squinted eyes. Then he leant back again.   
He shrugged his shoulders in defeat. 

"No. I don't get it." He admitted. 

"You don't get it?" Sherlock asked in turn, adding a small tone of innocence to his voice. 

"You'd rather let the people you care about die?" Moriarty removed his hand from Sherlock's shoulder, looking at him with an amount of curiosity. Sherlock didn't reply; he simply kept his eyes steadily focused on Moriarty. "You let me down, Sherlock. I didn't think you were  _that_  arrogant... You're not... I know you're not..." 

"Come with me," Sherlock ordered, walking past Moriarty and toward the door. It was risky, but he was fairly sure he'd go along with it. Before going down the stairs, Sherlock stopped and looked back to Moriarty. 

His mouth was pressed in a flat line as he looked around, slowly nodding. 

"Alright," He answered, sighing as if it were some burdensome chore. He followed.

The two of them went down the stairs: Sherlock leading, Moriarty in tow. When they reached the last flight of stairs, Sherlock glanced behind him.   
Moriarty was on his phone.   
Sherlock looked away, not wanting to make it obvious that he'd seen - since he was likely calling off the hit-men, even if just temporarily.   
He called a taxi, muttering the address as he went around to the other side to get in. They rode in silence, without even looking at each other. 

"You boys want the radio on?" The driver asked, glancing back. 

"No. And for God's sake, keep your eyes on the road," Sherlock replied. He then noticed Moriarty smirking ever so slightly to himself.   
They were silent for the rest of the journey. They were silent getting out, and they were silent on the street, and silent up to the door, and silent up the stairs - until they met Mrs Hudson. 

"Ooh! Sherlock, that nice man who fixed the-"

"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock interrupted, going straight past her. She turned her attention to his guest. 

"You're- you're that man! On the television!" She gasped, pointing at Moriarty in shock. Moriarty simply flashed her a brief smile, before continuing to follow Sherlock up the rest of the stairs.   
Once in the flat, Sherlock closed the door and hung up his coat. 

"Sherlock, you-" Interrupted again by Sherlock kissing him, Moriarty rolled his eyes. However, this time he actually responded to being kissed. His arms snaked around Sherlock's waist, his mouth moving in sync with Sherlock's. 

Sherlock pulled away, breathing heavily. 

"I have a feeling you enjoy interrupting me," Moriarty stated, putting on a face that imitated sulking. 

"Well, you rarely say anything significant," Sherlock replied. Moriarty's jaw dropped in false appall and offence.   
Taking hold of his chin, Sherlock kissed him again. 

Stood in his living room snogging a serial killer: what a way to end the day.   
Though it wasn't the end of the day, and it wasn't the worst thing he was going to do to a serial killer either. 

Skip about half an hour - Sherlock was on his bed, fists full of said serial killers hair, mouthing his neck. Their skin rubbing together, sweat mixing, breaths heavy. 

Sat in his bedroom fucking a serial killer: now  _that was_  a way to end the day.   
It had to be, without a doubt, the dirtiest thing Sherlock had ever done; it was utterly exhilarating.


	2. A Waste Of Time

"Have you found him yet?" Mycroft asked, simultaneously announcing his presence.   
He made John jump, since he hadn't been expecting him to be stood outside 221B, and was too busy finding his keys to notice him.   
It'd been three hours and nothing had been heard from Sherlock. At that point, even his emotionally-detached brother was beginning to get concerned. After all, a man going missing straight after arranging to meet a master criminal was a little worrying. 

"No, I haven't," John replied. 

"Where have you looked?" Mycroft asked bluntly. His tone suggested he didn't trust John to search for his brother properly. 

"Everywhere. At least, everywhere I know about. I reckon half of London heard me calling for him," He muttered, climbing the steps to the door. Mycroft turned to follow him. 

"And you didn't think to look here first?" He questioned. 

"Well, going home seems a little obvious, don't you think?" John turned back to him. A small, patronising smile spread on Mycroft's face. 

"Precisely my point," He answered. The Holmes' were equally annoying, cryptic and vague.   
John rolled his eyes, turning the key to the door. If Sherlock was there, he had some explaining to do. In a hiding place, it'd be understandable to ignore calls and texts to remain hidden. However, at home, there was no excuse. 

"John!" A voice called. John paused going through the door, and turned to face the street. Lestrade jogged to the bottom of the steps. Molly came after. "I couldn't find him," Lestrade stated. 

"Don't worry: you're not the only one," John replied. He motioned for everyone to come in. 

"Um, who's that?" Lestrade momentarily stopped whilst passing John, motioning to Mycroft. Molly looked equally curious to whom the other guest was. 

"Oh, right, that's Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother." John proceeded to shut the door, then follow Mycroft upstairs, Molly and Lestrade towing after.   
Lestrade mouthed the word 'brother' to himself, looking very confused, but went along with it all the same.

"Sherlock?" John called into the flat. No response. 

"God, what if he's dead? What if Moriarty killed him? Left him in some alley to rot!" Molly exclaimed, her voice breaking toward the end. Lestrade patted her shoulder in comfort. 

"No, Moriarty's more likely to leave him somewhere public. Somewhere everyone would see the body. Or perhaps take a photograph and broadcast it..." Mycroft corrected. At that point, Molly begun crying. 

"Thank you, Mycroft. Very comforting," John muttered sarcastically, flopping down into his chair. Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"It's not meant to be  _comforting_. It's meant to be the facts." He readjusted his grip on his umbrella while he spoke, making it so he was leaning on it rather than just holding it. 

"Where could he  _be_?" John asked no one in particular, rubbing his face. Lestrade moved to sit on the Clients Chair. Mycroft remained stood by the fire place and Molly by the desk, crying.   
Sherlock had disappeared with nothing but the assurance that he was meeting Moriarty, God knew where or why. 

"Do we know if he  _actually_  met with Moriarty?" Lestrade asked, leaning back in his seat. 

"We don't know if he  _actually_  did anything," John mumbled, his eyes set on the floor as he tried to think. 

"I suppose we can't know if Moriarty did anything either. The guys a crazed maniac, there's no telling what he'd do..." Lestrade muttered shaking his head. John nodded in agreement, frowning. 

"John," Mycroft poked John in the leg with his umbrella, getting his attention, "Is she alright?" He asked, motioning to Molly. He looked almost disgusted by the fact she was displaying an emotion he couldn't recognise. John had hardly even noticed her cries silencing. Her eyes were wide, and she was shaking like a leaf. 

"Molly?" Lestrade leant forward with concern. In response, Molly simply pointed forward, to the kitchen. Everyone followed her direction and, upon seeing the kitchen, had similar reactions.   
John actually had to blink hard to see if he was hallucinating or not. He couldn't help his jaw dropping in an almost gormless manner. 

"Hiya!" Moriarty greeted sweetly with a small wave and a beaming grin. 

"Why... Why is he in his pants?" Lestrade mumbled. That wasn't the initial question in John's mind, though it was close after, the initial question went more along the lines of: why the  _hell_  was Jim Moriarty in their kitchen? Let alone partly naked and drinking coffee.   
John honestly didn't know where to look. He couldn't remain looking at him whilst he was underdressed, but being one of the most wanted criminals at the time, it seemed foolish to take his eyes off of him.   
Molly and Lestrade were simply staring at him in shock, whilst Mycroft had taken to sternly focusing his eyes on the ground in front of him. 

"Wh-What are you doing here?" John asked. It was the only question he could think to ask without yelling or otherwise freaking out.   
Moriarty made an over-exaggerated gesture of shrugging, smirking innocently whilst he did so. 

"You know me, crrrazy Jim- no, Richard. It was Richard, right?" Moriarty made his way around the table, clearly not caring about his lack of clothes at all. He entered the living room, looking over the floor.   
It was obvious he'd stumbled on his name purposefully, probably just to make a point of who he was. 

"I'm calling backup." Lestrade went to stand up, but was interrupted by John. 

"There's no point. He's Richard Brook now, isn't he?" He muttered, crossing his arms. He shot a glare at Moriarty, who smirked back. 

"Alright, fine. Um, where're your clothes?" Lestrade asked. At that point, everyone besides Molly had found other things to look at besides the partly-naked man in the middle of the room. 

"Why? Don't you like these? They're designer, you know." Moriarty had found his phone and appeared to be texting someone, so sounded very disinterested in talking to Lestrade. He was talking about his underwear, which were white with a light green band. 

"I've seen them before. In the lab, when you left your number," John stated, recalling Sherlock and his first encounter with Moriarty. 

"Gold star!" Moriarty widened his eyes in false amazement, still focused on his phone. "Jim from IT likes the brand." He glanced up at Molly, smirking devilishly. 

"Where's Sherlock?" Molly spoke up. Her voice was quivering, depicting how terrified she was.   
Moriarty blatantly ignored her, continuing to text. Once he'd finished, he put his phone in his mouth and begun collecting clothes from the floor. The ones he decided weren't his he threw in random directions - which lead to a shirt landing on Johns face, a belt hitting Molly in the leg, and a blazer landing at Mycroft's feet. 

"You've killed him, haven't you?!" Molly exclaimed, tears running down her face.   
Moriarty's lip curled as he pulled a face of disgust. He removed his phone to speak.

"Crazed maniac, I'll take. Necrophiliac? No thank you," Moriarty muttered, glancing at Molly as if she'd accused him of something somehow more horrific than murdering someone. "This has been a pleasure, truly." He backed down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, clothes over his arm, all the while sounding like it was anything  _but_  a pleasure.

"Well, this was clearly a waste of my time." Mycroft muttered, heading to the door. 

"But we haven't found Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, stepping forward. Mycroft turned on his heel to face her, looking very unimpressed. 

"I really cannot tell why Sherlock associates with such simple people..." He muttered to himself. "I'll explain anyway." He sounded as if explaining was the most charitable thing he'd ever done. 

"Ex-explain what?" Molly asked. 

"Moriarty's hair was dishevelled, mostly at the back, but at an angle: showing it'd been grabbed at by someone facing him. The product in his hair made the tufts gather, the thickness depicts his hair was taken in fistfuls. He had bruises on his neck, scattered with no pattern - which rules out strangling, so you can presume whatever you'd like. Of course there was the comment on necrophilia... Then, the clothes on the floor: Moriarty just gathered up the ones belonging to him, leaving the shirt, blazer and belt - all of which belong to my  _stupid_  brother. I assume the rest of his clothes are in  _there_ , along with him. Based upon the activity, and the lack of response to being called for, I suppose he's asleep. Hence his whereabouts no longer concern me, so I'll be off," Mycroft explained. He smiled smugly, obviously receiving a sense of superiority upon having to explain. 

"Wow, you really are his brother," Lestrade mumbled. Mycroft's smile dropped and he looked at Lestrade disapprovingly. 

"Are you saying... they..." Molly seemed very uncomfortable with the situation - and she wasn't the only one. John, for one, could hardly believe what Mycroft had just explained. However, everything he'd said had made perfect sense and couldn't really point to anything else. 

"As disappointed and appalled as it makes me, yes. Sherlock undertook intercourse with James Moriarty," Mycroft stated.  

"Jim - thank you!" Moriarty corrected loudly from the bedroom. 

"I thought it was Richard!" Molly shouted back angrily. There was a small silence. 

"I just rolled my eyes at you, so you know." Moriarty explained. Molly scowled. John couldn't tell if she was angry at Sherlock or Moriarty.   
Mycroft turned and left. 

"Bye, Mycroft," John called flatly. 

"Goodbye," Mycroft replied from downstairs. They heard the front door close. 

"Now what do we do about him?" Lestrade asked, pointing to the bedroom. Honestly, John couldn't tell who Lestrade was referring to, he couldn't care either. He left Lestrade and Molly in the living room and marched down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. 

Sherlock had really screwed up this time, and  _boy_  did he have some explaining to do.

 


	3. A Pleasant Smell

Sherlock sat up, awoken by the pleasant smell of nicotine. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but he felt awful. If he could find the source of the nicotine, maybe he'd feel better.   
Looking around, he sniffed the air. His eyes landed on Jim Moriarty, whom was sat in a chair facing the bed.  His head was back, his eyes closed, and a cigarette between his lips.

Memories began immediately providing themselves. Memories of him being sat on Sherlock's lap, holding tightly to his shoulders, moaning his name like a heavenly prayer, and leaning his head back similar to how he was then.

"Morning sunshine," Moriarty said, not moving his head, but allowing a small smile to grace his features.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. There was no way that it could be morning...

"Sorry, evening." Moriarty muttered. He opened one eye, glancing at Sherlock. "You were only asleep two hours, don't worry," He put on a voice that resembled aspects of enthusiasm, comfort and a little bit of patronising  kindness.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Something was off, but he was too damn tired to tell what it was. He held his head in his hands. The room kept lurching around him.

"Aw, baby, what's wrong?" Moriarty frowned. He uncrossed his legs, standing up, and approached Sherlock. He walked with a saunter and stood over Sherlock.   
As looked up at him, he took the cigarette from his mouth and bent down; he put it between Sherlock's lips with a smug smirk on his own.

"Who's in the living room?" Sherlock asked, after taking a drag. That was what was off: the voices in the living room. Three of them. John, Molly and...

"Now what do we do about him?" He heard Lestrade ask.

"All your friends. I don't think they like me very much..." Moriarty replied to Sherlock. He pretended to look upset by the fact Sherlock's 'friends' disliked him.   
Sherlock hooked his arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and pressing their lips together.

"There're no more snipers," Moriarty reminded, only moving enough to speak, his voice quiet.

"I know," Sherlock answered, returning Moriarty's cigarette. He then pushed Moriarty, both hands on his chest, with such force that he fell backward - onto the floor next to the bed.

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking?!" John exclaimed, entering the room in a fury. Sherlock looked at him with an element of concern.

"W-what?" He asked, rubbing his head - not that it helped.

"Sleeping with Moriarty, that's what!" John shouted. He'd actually gone red in the face.

"I... What? Who slept with Moriarty?" Sherlock questioned, turning to him.

"Nice try. I saw him. We all saw him. In his underwear, actually," John replied, folding his arms tightly. Molly and Lestrade had gone quiet - clearly listening in. Sherlock would usually have a problem with eavesdropping, but in that circumstance, it was actually quite convenient that they were listening.

"W-when? When did you...?" Sherlock asked.

"Just now. He was in the kitchen," John answered. He motioned to the other room with one hand, before returning it to its place of being folded across his chest.

"He's in the kitchen?" Sherlock lowered his voice, leaning and eyeing the door warily.

"Not now! He came back in here!" John had returned to shouting. He was using the voice he used when he thought Sherlock was trying to wind him up.

"Back in here? Moriarty was never-..."

"Never here? His clothes were in the living room - and so were yours. They still are, in fact." John motioned once again to the other room.

"My clothes? John, I'm wearing my-... Oh." Sherlock looked down at his bare torso and the sheets that were covering the rest of him. "I actually don't remember coming here..." He mumbled, looking around.

"Oh? What - Moriarty planted this whole thing? Tried to trick us that you slept with him?!" John questioned angrily.

"To increase the suspicion on my mentality. Of course, it makes perfect sense. You didn't believe I'd hired him as an actor - but you would believe that I had attachment to him as an intellectual equal, or near equal. Therefore, you'd believe that I'd act irrationally on that attachment." Sherlock stood up, wrapping the sheet around himself. He headed to the other room. With John in tow, he glanced back at the bedroom.

Moriarty was stood with his arms folded, tapping his foot silently.   
'Near equal,' He mouthed, before rolling his eyes. Sherlock concealed his smirk as he entered the living room.

"Let's see, he probably broke in... Unless..." He put his hands to his lips in thought.

"Where is he now, then?" Lestrade asked.

"No idea. Probably climbed out the window. Most likely long gone. No point in looking for him," Sherlock replied, he raised his voice a little, looking around. He found his clothes scattered on the floor.

"Change in the bathroom. I'm going to search your room," John turned and went down the hall.

~~~

Jim turned and moved out of the way of the door, rubbing his shoulder, scowling. A simple 'Watson's coming' would've been fine, but apparently Sherlock would rather roughly shove him onto the wood floor like a damn sack of potatoes.   
He listened to the idle chatter in the other room for a moment, taking a seat on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable...

"No idea. Probably climbed out the window. Most likely long gone. No point in looking for him," Sherlock shouted from the living room. Rolling his eyes, Jim took the hint. He went to the window and lifted up the pane. It made a creaking noise as it went up, the wood threatening to splinter.

"Oh Sherlock, you bastard," Jim muttered, looking at the drop. There was no way in living hell he was going to willingly jump out a second story window so that Sherlock wouldn't have to admit he screwed him to his friends. The landing would be softened by some rubbish bins, but he was wearing one of his favourite suits...

"Change in the bathroom. I'm going to search your room," Watson announced, his footsteps approaching.

Typical.   
Just typical.

Jim hastily got one leg up on the ledge, swinging the other up after. As the door handle turned, he pushed himself forward.   
As soon as he landed, he was surrounded by the pleasant smell of rotting food from the café.

"Thank you, Sherlock," He grumbled, getting out of the giant mass of black bin bags. As he walked away, he muttered all sorts of profanities about the detective.


	4. A Sticky-Note

Jim messed his hair as he climbed the stairs to Kitty's apartment: just after he'd neatened it up too. He had no idea why he'd made Richard Brook such a slob...  
As he approached the apartment, he spotted a sticky-note stuck to the door.

' _Richard,_  
_I got a meeting in Somerset - maybe for a promotion!!!_  
 _I don't want you loitering around my flat while I'm not home, so you're stuff is by the door and I've left £50 for a hotel or something._  
 _Cheers,_  
 _Kitty xxx_ '

Jim took down the note, reading it again.

"A promotion sounds exciting, doesn't it?" The neighbour, whose name was who-cares-what, beamed at Jim. In return, the sides of Jim's mouth quirked, showing his teeth in what could _possibly_ be described as a smile. "You're dressed fancy, where have you been?" The neighbour asked, unnecessarily and pryingly.

"None of your business," Jim muttered in a sing-song voice, getting his key from his jacket pocket.

"Oh, I didn't mean to-" Jim slammed the door, cutting off the neighbour.  
Just as the note had said, all of the things he'd been keeping at Kitty's had been put in bags and were by the door.

"Motherfucker!" Jim exclaimed, kicking the air in frustration. He'd completely been counting on being able to stay with Kitty for a few days. Besides that, all of his plans would have to change, since Sherlock hadn't killed himself and probably wasn't likely to any time soon.  
He would've taken Kitty's advice of going to a hotel: but Richard Brook had caught the attention of the press. Everyone wanted to hear about the actor the Sherlock Holmes had hired to play his nemesis... Hotels were always crawling with reporters; at least the decent ones were, and there was no way Jim was going to stay in some shit-hole.

He grabbed the envelope containing the fifty pounds and shoved it angrily in his blazer pocket, before picking up his bags and making a leave.   
He was going to have to find somewhere to stay...

The neighbour had thankfully gone inside. If Jim had had to talk to him again, he'd might've just shot himself.  
Ordinary people were so _boring_.

As he went out onto the street, he took a deep breath of the sweet smelling, polluted London air. He had a good idea of where to go.  
It was early evening and the light was beginning to dim. The street lamps began flickering on as Jim walked the filled-up London streets. No matter the time of day, London was up to the brim with people. So many people. So many _ordinary_ , _boring_ people.

That's why he felt quite pleased to be back at Baker Street.  
That day, Sherlock had proved he wasn't totally boring - which meant Jim hadn't finished with him.

He used the key he'd taken from Sherlock's blazer earlier on to open the door of 221B. Making sure to make as little noise as possible, he went in and closed the door behind him.  
A moment went by as stood listening upstairs. No one could be heard...

"Do you want to call Mycroft?" He heard Watson suddenly ask. Thankfully, he hadn't  gone straight up or Watson would've seen him and kicked him out. "He still thinks it was real," Watson added.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock replied.

"It's you again!" A voice suddenly said.

"Jesus shit!" Jim exclaimed, clutching his heart and leant against the wall in surprise. The land lady, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock called her, was stood scowling at him.

"What are you doing back here?" She snapped. Jim exhaled in relief, relaxing. "Well?" She pressed.

"I just need a place to stay," Jim answered, putting as much innocence that he could muster in his voice. She beckoned him into her flat, face stern. Obediently, but still rolling his eyes, he followed her.

"Sherlock said you wouldn't be here again. I've already had to lie to John once - and I don't like lying to John!" She closed the door behind them as she spoke.

"Lied to him how?" Jim asked, looking around the old woman's flat. He wasn't particularly interested in whatever it was Mrs Hudson had lied about to Watson, but he didn't really know why she wanted to speak with him in the first place, so decided to go along with the conversation.

"Well, Sherlock said if he asked about you, to deny I ever saw you. Apparently it wasn't a lie since you're technically 'not Jim, but Richard'. Unless John asked about 'Richard' then you were actually 'Jim'," Mrs Hudson explained, sounding a little confused. Jim rolled his eyes in exasperation. Again with the ordinary people... The world was completely crawling with them! "It was only a couple of minutes ago that Greg and Molly left - Sherlock spent a long while feeding them lies. I don't like it. Not one bit."

She sat down at the table, motioning for him to sit opposite. As he sat, she pushed a plate of biscuits toward him.

"So what name do you prefer, hmm? Jim or Richard?" She asked, looking at him attentively.

"Jim," He replied, covering his mouth keep the biscuit in.

"Alright, Jim," Mrs Hudson nodded slowly. She pulled out a pistol, pointing it at Jim, her face like stone. "If you hurt Sherlock, you'll be in big trouble."

"Dear god!" Jim exclaimed, looking at the pistol. He was more shocked than anything else.

"I know what you two are up to. You're a bad man, and Sherlock's a sensitive boy. The slightest mishap, and you'll be hearing from me. Do you understand me?" She questioned. For the first time in a long time, Jim was actually speechless. Why did a sweet elderly woman have a gun pointed at him?!  
She ushered for him to answer.

"Yes, God, I understand!" He answered.

"Good." Mrs Hudson gave a single nod, lowering the pistol. "Now, off you pop."

Jim stood up warily. So much for ordinary...  
He picked up his bags again, heading to the door.

"Oh, before you go," Mrs Hudson started, "Would you like another biscuit?"

Jim stopped in his tracks, before backing up to take up on her offer.  
Just as he  was going through the door, he flashed her a grin, biscuit between his teeth. Mrs Hudson wasn't as bad as he'd originally thought, he'd give her that.

He approached the stairs for the second time. Sherlock and Watson were still talking.

"I really think you should call him now, Sherlock," Watson stated.

"Fine, I'll call him!" Sherlock replied, sounding irritated.

"When?" Watson asked. Jim started up the steps, listening, to assure they were still talking.

"Just let me finish my tea, honestly, John," Sherlock muttered in response.  
Seeing as both of them were in the living room, Jim was able to go straight to the bedroom without being seen.

He took off his jacket and hung it, rubbing the side of his face.  
He _really_ needed to think through just what the _hell_ he was doing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably won't update for a little while because I have exams starting next week...  
> Thank you for reading so far though - it's really appreciated!  
> ~ Jay xx


	5. A Jacket That Wasn't His

Sherlock, having finished his tea and been ushered by John, picked up his phone and called Mycroft.

"I was expecting you to call. Have you got an excuse?" Mycroft immediately asked upon picking up the phone.  
Sherlock made his way down the hall. He needed to talk to Mycroft without John hearing...

"I suppose there's no point in trying 'Moriarty staged it all' with you..." Sherlock muttered, closing his bedroom door behind him.

"Oh God, I hope that's not what you told the others," Mycroft stated in disgust.

"You see, he was trying to get everyone to believe I have poor judgement and act irrationally - and therefore resent me," Sherlock explained.

"They didn't believe that..." Mycroft sounded as if he was more praying for it than stating it.

"It's the truth." Sherlock tried.

"Oh shut up," Mycroft muttered. "So what really happened? I'm curious to what changed."

"I-..." Sherlock started. Upon seeing a jacket he didn't recognise as his own or John's, he stopped. Turning, his saw a guest on his bed.

Moriarty was lying with his eyes closed and earphones in.  
"Did you miss me?" He asked, not moving from his position.

Sherlock hung up on Mycroft.

"You weren't gone long enough," He replied to Moriarty's question. Noticing the bags that had been placed next to the bed, Sherlock went to see what else Moriarty had settled in with.

"I missed you." He stated. Sherlock glanced round: concerned that he sounded serious. However, he was quite relieved by a teasing grin.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. He knew it sounded blunt, but he honestly didn't care. If Moriarty thought he could just pop over whenever he felt like, purely because they'd fucked - he was very mistaken.

"Kitty kicked me out," He answered with a wobbling pout and a whiny tone, sitting up and propping himself on his elbows.  
Sherlock instantly picked up on what Moriarty was implying.

"You can't stay here." He walked over to the side of he bed, looking down at Moriarty. He looked back at him an extremely smug smirk.

"Will you tell Dr Watson?" He asked. Sherlock glowered, understanding that he had a strong point. "Or Big Brother Holmes? Tell him I'm being bad..." His eyes were innocently wide, but he was wearing a devilish smirk. He drawled out the word 'bad', and licked his lips after.

Sherlock exhaled deeply before talking.  
"You can stay, so long as no one knows. Not John, not Mycroft, not even Mrs Hudson: no one." He watched Moriarty casually shrug in response.

"Land lady knows I'm here. She's crazy, it's fantastic," Moriarty replied, he was back on his phone. Sherlock didn't even know what he did on the damn thing. Probably working at his criminal web: making connections, scheming, pulling strings from across the world. Still, he had a straight face, and was showing no indication of being a criminal mastermind.

"Did she pull a gun on you?" Sherlock asked.

"Does she do it often?" Moriarty questioned in response, looking a cross between impressed and confused. Sherlock thought about his answer for a moment.

"Not overly, but neither is it rare." There'd been a few occasions that Mrs Hudson had pulled guns on people. Most of the time, it was Sherlock. The rest, for Sherlock.

"Impressive," Moriarty muttered, returning his eyes to the mobile screen.

Sherlock sat on the bed, next to Moriarty's outstretched legs.

"Why are you here?" He repeated.

"Kitty kicked me out." Moriarty relayed the same answer, but without the dramatics. It was obvious he was aware that that wasn't what Sherlock had meant.

"Surely there're better places for you to stay. Staying with a rival seems a bit-"

"Rival?" Moriarty interrupted. "Don't undersell yourself like that, it breaks my heart," He stated, sounding very un-heartbroken.

"And how would you describe it?" Sherlock questioned. He was genuinely curious for Moriarty's insight on the arrangement they'd put themselves into.

Putting his phone away, finally, Moriarty leant forward. He traced a gentle line under Sherlock's left cheekbone, watching his hand intently as he did so.  
His eyes flickered momentarily to Sherlock's lips, before settling on his eyes.

"I'm not overly wordy, I'm better with numbers," He replied.

"Explain it with numbers, if it's easier for you," Sherlock ordered, lifting his head to guide Moriarty's touch downward to his jaw.

"It's like dividing zero." Moriarty smiled, slowly climbing onto Sherlock's lap.

"Impossible?" Sherlock asked, raising his brow.

"It can't be defined." By Moriarty's tone and the smirk he wore, Sherlock could tell he was quite proud of his joke. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't impressed.

"That was awful," He stated bluntly. Moriarty furrowed his brow.

"Of course it was, it was a maths joke," He replied, as if it were blatantly obvious.  
Fair enough, Sherlock thought, pulling Moriarty closer to to him with his hands on his thighs.  
He had fantastic thighs... He had fantastic everything, really. He was the fantastic Moriarty. He was so _perfect_ to Sherlock. To him, Jim Moriarty was the perfect collection of flaws and oddities. An amazing human bundle of strangeness and bewilderments, but still a _human_. He lived, he breathed, he felt, yet it'd taken Sherlock until that day to realise it.  
Moriarty had been a challenge, a task to overcome - but he was a human being...

At that moment, he looked very human. Usually Moriarty wore a mask that concealed all signs of inner thought and emotion, and only put on what he wanted people to see in him. Be that as it may, there he was, straddling Sherlock with every thought showing clearly in every movement he made, every facial expression he wore, and every inch of his body.  
Not that there appeared to be many things on Moriarty's mind. It seemed the main thing he was thinking about was sex, and judging by the tensing of his muscles and wild look in his eyes, rough sex at that. Which actually seemed more animalistic, once Sherlock had put some thought into it.

"Stop trying to deduce me, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered, lips close to Sherlock's ear. "Seduce me instead."

"You seem already rather seduced on your own," Sherlock replied, letting his hands wander to Moriarty's behind.  
He let out a low laugh, his breath tickling the top of Sherlock's ear. He ran both his hands through Sherlock's dark curls, leaning his weight against Sherlock's shoulder.

"I get like this sometimes..." He drawled quietly. "I come here-"

"I know you do," Sherlock interrupted. He laughed again, the sound breathy and devilish. "I've seen what you leave behind," Sherlock stated. "Your note about the eyes was clever."

"I am clever," Moriarty responded, leaning back to look at Sherlock face-on.

"I know you are." Sherlock closed the distance between them, initiating a desperate, yet breath-taking kiss.  
He certainly had the line between enemy and inamorato completely and utterly blurred. They were perfect to challenge each other, but that just made them more perfect to captivate one another.  
However, what to do next? It was case even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve.

He'd thought about it, but Sherlock could only ever see it ending badly. It was too strong of a fire, and it was bound to burn out quickly and perilously.

Despite it, he wanted it; he yearned for it; he desperately needed it.  
It definitely seemed that Sherlock Holmes was utterly enamoured with Jim Moriarty: and perhaps he was.


	6. A Valid Point

John opened the door for Mycroft. The guests identity had been given away by the taps of an umbrella on the door - rather than knocking like a regular person.

"Back so soon?" John asked, as the elder Holmes brother walked past him.   
Mycroft simply glanced at him in response. "Didn't Sherlock just call you? I thought he was still on the phone to you actually..."

"We were on the phone for about a minute and a half," Mycroft replied, eyeing the mess that was scattered over Sherlock's desk.

"But he's been talking-"

"You poor, simple, man..." Mycroft tilted his head a little, giving John a sympathetic look.

"Pardon?" John questioned in surprise of being called simple. Neither of the Holmes' acted very well when they knew something others didn't (which was actually quite often). However, Sherlock was often a little more gracious - John'd give him that.

"You really don't know, do you?" Mycroft asked, turning his attention to the mantlepiece.

"No, no I don't. Care to enlighten?" John's patience was running low. God he hated when Mycroft acted so high and mighty...

"There was no need for Sherlock to call me, because there was no 'staging', no 'trick', and no 'planting' of false evidence," Mycroft answered, as cryptic as he always was. "Do you really think I'd be able to be fooled that easily?"

"Are you... Are you saying he actually...?" John asked, motioning to the bedroom. He didn't want to say it loud, in case that'd make it real. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock wouldn't... He wouldn't do _that_ , especially not with Moriarty.

"Yes, still is, I think," Mycroft replied.

"Still is?!"

"Well, you implied he'd been talking for longer than we were on the phone for. I assume to Moriarty. Based upon the recent developments, and the current quiet, I'd say they're... back at it." Mycroft gave another explanation, which he accompanied with another smug smile.

"You're such a know-it-all." John scowled, folding his arms. Mycroft smiled broader. Honestly, you'd say he was related to Sherlock and he'd look immediately upset, but call him a know-it-all and he'd look delighted.

"I take pride in it," Mycroft stated, confirming what John was already thinking.

"I'm going to intervene," John announced, turning to go to the bedroom.   
Surprisingly, Mycroft grabbed his shoulder to stop him. It seemed very out of character to John, but he turned all the same.

"You can't do that!" Mycroft said, retracting his hand.

"Why the hell not?" John asked. He didn't want Sherlock doing _that_ with his enemy. Especially when he knew so well how much he was going to regret it.

Mycroft held the bridge of his nose in frustration for a moment. "Oh John..." He muttered exasperatedly.

"What?" John questioned flatly.

"Do you really want to see my brother in the middle of something like that?" Mycroft looked extremely disappointed in John.   
He had a strong point, but John still thought his was stronger.

"I don't care what he's in the middle of-" Mycroft scrunched his nose at Johns phrasing. "Not the best wording..." John muttered. Mycroft shook his head in agreement, keeping a look of mild disgust upon his face. "Point: I don't care, I'm putting some sense into him," John finished. Mycroft pulled another face at John's wording.

" _Really_?" He asked quietly. John rolled his eyes, turning once more to go to the bedroom.   
He heard Mycroft tailing after.

He took a breath before opening the door.   
He was quite relieved to see them both fully dressed, despite Sherlock pinning Moriarty to the bed with his arms above his head, kissing him messily. That was, until he noticed that the front of Moriarty's trousers were undone and Sherlock's hand was inside.

Upon noticing John, Sherlock immediately let go of Moriarty, and moved to sit on the bed in a way that blocked Johns view of Moriarty's lower half.

"Oh, um, hello John," Sherlock greeted sheepishly. He hit Moriarty repeatedly in the waist in an attempt to push him off of the bed and out of view - but Moriarty didn't budge, and simply slapped his wrist, telling him to 'fuck off'. Thankfully, he did up the front of his trousers.

"I suppose this is staged, too?" John asked sarcastically, folding his arms. He felt as if he'd folded his arms a lot that day. Though, to be fair, it'd been a _really_ weird day...

There was a small silence while Sherlock thought.   
"Would you believe it if-?"

"No." John cut him off. He glanced at Mycroft, he was stood just outside the door - probably scared that he'd see something that he didn't want to. This motion had encouraged Sherlock to lean to see who was there.

"Oh god, why did you bring him?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't bring him. He showed up on his own," John argued, angry that _that_ was the part Sherlock had an issue with. How in hells name did Sherlock not see what was wrong with the situation?

"I don't like it when you hang up abruptly, Sherlock," Mycroft stated airily, entering the room.

"Oh shut up, you don't like anything, you're practically a misanthropist," Sherlock muttered.

"I don't think I'd go as far a misanthropy..." Mycroft replied, appearing to actually be giving it some thought. Similar to his brother, Mycroft didn't care for the gravity of the situation.

Moriarty swung his legs off of the bed, running his fingers through his hair to neaten it, and tightening his tie. He went around the bed, heading for the door.

"Sit back down," John ordered. He wanted Moriarty to be there for when Sherlock explained what the fuck he was doing.  
Moriarty simply raised his brow, like he'd just been told the weather, rather than been given an order. John pointed his gun at him. Honestly, he'd had it up to _here_ with people talking down to him, ignoring him, and overall treating him like he was completely stupid.

"Shoot me if you want. It'd save me the effort." Moriarty stopped, appearing to be inconvenienced by John pulling a gun on him, but still wearing a small smirk.

"He'll shoot you," Sherlock warned.

"I will," John agreed. Moriarty gave a dramatised shrug.   
Accepting the offer, John took the shot. He purposely aimed to only graze his upper arm, since he couldn't tell just _how_ upset Sherlock would be if John actually killed his new found love interest.

A string of very loud and very explicit swears emerged from Moriarty.

John was actually surprised to see Mycroft stifle a laugh. He didn't think he'd ever seen Mycroft laugh, so it was odd that Moriarty being shot was what had granted it.  
Otherwise, he was quite happy with the fact that he'd actually shot one of the most notorious criminals of all time, and also one of the biggest pains in the arse (that was, besides Sherlock - though with a gun in his hand and a horrifying mental image burnt into his memory, John wasn't too sure whether or not he'd shoot him also).

"Sit back down," John repeated. Moriarty appeared genuinely pissed off, and therefore ignored John, and walked straight past him.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called, before anyone else could respond.

"To a fucking doctor!" Moriarty shouted angrily back.

"Will you be coming back?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I'll be fucking coming back..." Moriarty muttered from the the living room. He slammed the door after him, the noise of him going down the stairs following after.   
It seemed Moriarty's vocabulary became a lot more explicit when he was angry...

"He implied he wouldn't mind being shot..." Mycroft mumbled with an amused smile.

"He didn't. He's just annoyed that-"

"John isn't afraid of him," Mycroft finished for his younger brother.

"Yes, and he didn't expect-"

"John to actually fire at him," Mycroft once again interrupted. Sherlock nodded, looking a little miffed at being cut off.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" John asked, remembering why he was actually there.   
Sherlock didn't respond immediately, just stared at John with the same expression. Although, after about half a minute, John was bored. "Well?" He pressed.

"Well..." Sherlock echoed, looking at the floor with a face of concern. He appeared to be going through excuses.

"Why did you decide that was the best way out?" Mycroft asked. Perhaps his question worked a little better. It was more specific, and gave Sherlock less to think about - which usually wasn't an issue.

"He was going to kill himself," Sherlock replied, his voice quieter than usual.

"I'm aware. He sent me a message," Mycroft stated. "Though I still fail to understand how this amounted to the best escape..."

"It just was!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding very frustrated.

"You know what mother thinks about you answering questions like that," Mycroft stated disapprovingly, eyeing Sherlock with a look that matched his tone. John was actually sort of glad Mycroft had shown up - he, similar to John, didn't like putting up with Sherlock's crap, however he was better at encouraging Sherlock to cut it.

"It wasn't a question..." Sherlock muttered.

"You know what I mean." Mycroft rolled his eyes. It seemed he was getting just as bored as John, waiting for Sherlock to simply explain himself.

"Just tell us what you thinking when you... did it," John ushered, slightly unsure on his wording.   
Sherlock leant forward, breathing in deeply.

"I thought... I don't know; I don't know what I was thinking. There were snipers, he had tried to kill himself, he wanted me to jump off of the roof, I didn't exactly have many options!" Sherlock threw his arms up toward the end. He seemed to feel quite victimised - which just a tad unfair, since he was the one getting it on with a wanted criminal.   
However, his point was relatively valid. It got him out of the trap that Moriarty had set, which was fair enough. Though it failed to explain one thing...

"So why is he back here?" John asked, "And why is he coming back?"

"Because it was fun." Sherlock shrugged, with the traces of a smile on his lips.

"Unbelievable!" John exclaimed, burying his face in his hands, unable to hold back the exasperation Sherlock made him feel.

"That, and Kitty Riley doesn't want him staying at her apartment any longer - and he doesn't have anywhere else to stay at this current moment in time," Sherlock explained.

"Were you planning on telling me we'd be having a serial killer to stay?!" John questioned. Sherlock didn't reply, though his face very much depicted that was, in fact, planning the opposite. "You weren't going to tell me?!"

"Well, I thought, perhaps, you'd disapprove... A little..." Sherlock replied.

"Just a little," John muttered sarcastically. He took a deep breath.

"You're playing with fire here, Sherlock, but as long as you don't whine about your burns - that's fine by me." Mycroft stated. He really loved his metaphors.

"You're not going to stop him?" John asked, slightly surprised. He would've thought Mycroft would've been the first person to step in. After all, the safety of his brother seemed to concern him more than he'd care to admit, and anything concerning Moriarty, certainly wasn't safe.

"Unfortunately, it is none of my business to intervene. Sherlock, if this is what you desire to do, then so be it, but I'll have nothing to do with it. Anything he does from this point on: is on you," Mycroft answered, before directing what he said to Sherlock. By 'he', Mycroft clearly meant Moriarty. It seemed justifiable that Sherlock took responsibility of Moriarty, but it didn't seem overly safe for Mycroft to step back entirely from Moriarty.

"Fine." Sherlock replied curtly. John sighed.

If that's how they wanted to deal with it, then that's how they wanted to deal with it. Similar to what Mycroft had said, if it was what Sherlock wanted, then it was up to him.   
John decided to take the same approach, and let Sherlock handle his own ordeals.

He went back to the living room, shaking his head.   
How did he not see this coming?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's a little longer, but there was quite a bit to cover in this... scene?? I don't know the writing term, unless that is the writing term... 
> 
> Anyway, that's why it took a bit longer. So, I apologise for that also. 
> 
> Thank you for reading,  
> Jay xx


	7. A Goodbye Kiss

Sherlock awoke the next morning feeling a slight tinge of dread.   
John had appeared very upset about the situation with Ji- Moriarty. He hadn't engaged much with Sherlock after their talk with Mycroft. The most he'd say were small comments, which often sounded quite passive-aggressive. To be completely honest, Sherlock didn't blame him. Even he didn't know what he was doing, or where it was going...   
Though it seemed the part that had upset John the most was that Sherlock hadn't told him. Which, again, didn't merit blame - since he was his best friend, and yet Sherlock had failed to inform him of something so important.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, allowing the rest of his body to wake up. He then noticed the gentle breath against his neck, the weight on top of his stomach, and something against his thigh.   
He slightly turned to see Moriarty, lying with his face close to Sherlock's neck, his arm around Sherlock's body, and his knee against Sherlock's thigh.   
He must've come back very late, since Sherlock had gone to bed without him there at quite a late hour. He was also still in his day-clothes, having appeared to have chucked his jacket on the chair, kicked off his shoes at the side of the bed, and just gotten into bed beside Sherlock. Where Moriarty had actually gone was still a mystery...

Sherlock glanced at the arm John had shot at. The shirt hadn't been changed, so was blood-stained. Through the small hole the bullet had made, Sherlock could see that he'd had it bandaged - or bandaged it himself.   
Sherlock guessed that after storming out, Moriarty had realised how minor the wound was, and had just gone to a pharmacist. After all, going to an actual doctor wouldn't be a very good idea for an individual such as him - especially with a gun wound. Still, that didn't explain why he was gone so late...  
Not that Moriarty's arm, or where he'd gone the previous night, was the biggest concern at the time.

The biggest concern was still John, and getting him to realise that Sherlock knew what he was doing - to an extent.   
What was he doing?   
Well, he was having sexual relations with a master criminal. Initially to avoid his only friends being murdered, secondly because... Well, the first time was quite enjoyable. Said criminal was also going to be staying with him, since he'd been kicked out by the journalist he'd used to fool the nation that Sherlock was a fraud. That, and both parties seemed to rather fancy the new development in their relationship.

Jim, Moriarty, rather, stirred in his sleep, moving slightly closer to Sherlock's body. It made Sherlock realise that he'd been subconsciously running his hand through Moriarty's dark hair.   
Sherlock decided that he preferred Moriarty when he was awake. When he was asleep, he was quiet and boring. He looked innocent and sweet, which was disappointing, since a whole part of his charm was his mania and craziness - at least it was to Sherlock. Looking less like a psychopath was actually seemed to be a disadvantage to Moriarty, which sounded a little odd.

"I know I'm ridiculously handsome, and incredibly sexy, but would you mind stopping with the 'watching me sleep' thing? It's _super_ creepy..." Moriarty mumbled, not opening his eyes, but putting on a small pout.  
Sherlock couldn't help but break into a smile. Nevertheless, he averted his gaze elsewhere, as Moriarty had asked. About half a minute past where nothing else was said.

"I change my mind, give me attention," Moriarty ordered, moving his hand from Sherlock's stomach to move his head to face him. His eyes met Moriarty's dark, dark brown ones.

"Happily," Sherlock replied with a smirk. To this, Moriarty replied by  stretching up and kissing Sherlock. Every time they kissed, it was different, but still felt so very dangerous. Every time, it was fantastic, and gave Sherlock the feeling that the rest of the world didn't matter. Every time, he loved every second.

A knocking on the door broke their moment.   
"Sherlock!" John called, knocking again. Moriarty glared at the door in annoyance, keeping his position. "Greg's here with a case. Apparently, you weren't answering your phone," He added. He still sounded a little annoyed at Sherlock, but lesser than he did the evening before. Moriarty moved off of Sherlock, allowing him to sit up.

"My phone..." Sherlock mumbled, looking around. Usually his phone was quite reliable... He found it on the bedside. It'd been switched off.   
Almost instinctually, he looked to Moriarty.

"It was buzzing," He stated with an innocent eye roll, as he got up from Sherlock's bed. He examined the blood stain on his shirt, looking quite upset.

"It was off," Sherlock replied to John. He waited for it to turn on, curious of what the case was. Whilst doing so, he moved to be sat on the edge of the bed.

"Can I come in?" John asked. Sherlock glanced at Moriarty before answering.

"I'm not going on the floor again," He muttered, briefly looking at Sherlock.

"Yes, come in," Sherlock answered, impatiently looking back to his phone. He didn't remember it being so slow at starting up... Then again, it wasn't often that he properly switched it off.   
John entered his bedroom.

"Could I have a moment with Sherlock?" He asked Moriarty. Sherlock looked to him, awaiting his response.

"Or what? You'll shoot at me again?" Moriarty muttered, making his way around the bed. As he went past John, he made a point of displaying the blood stain. "Not a low-cost shirt, Watson," He added airily.

John waited until Moriarty had gone down the hall before speaking.   
"I'm sorry for how I reacted yesterday. I... Well, I should've trusted your decision and respected your judgement. So I'm very sorry," John said.

"That's okay," Sherlock replied briefly, standing up. He headed to the living room to have Lestrade explain the case himself, since his phone wasn't being overly helpful.   
John shook his head, smiling, before following Sherlock.

"Is it an urgent case?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he entered the living room.

"Uh, yeah, be good if we could leave soon..." Lestrade replied, looking at Jim, Moriarty, with an amount of concern.   
Moriarty was making himself coffee, not paying any attention to anyone in the living room.

"Alright, you can explain it in the car," Sherlock stated, motioning for him to lead out. They were almost out of the door and in the stairwell, when Jim cleared his throat loudly.   
Sherlock leant back in, whilst John and Lestrade simply waited on the stairs.

There was an elongated moment where nothing else happened. Simply Sherlock and Jim staring at each other: Sherlock with a look of confusion, and Jim with an expectant gaze.

"I hope you're not suggesting that I-"   
Jim slowly nodded, with a angelic eyes and a devilish smirk. Sherlock sighed, going toward Jim.   
He stood before him.

"Goodbye, Jim," Sherlock stated.

"Buh-bye," Jim replied, a sweetened smile on his mouth.

Sherlock then leant down to kiss Jim's lips, which was received by Jim wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissing him back twice as hard. It lasted a small while, before Lestrade interrupted.

"Sherlock! Urgent, remember?" He called from the stairs.

"Right, yes, of course, bye, coming!" Sherlock rushed, letting go of Jim.

"Go solve me a case, tiger," Jim teased, slapping Sherlock's bum as he turned to leave. Sherlock shot him a look over his shoulder, but he simply smiled in return.

Hurrying down the stairs, Sherlock passed John and Lestrade.   
"Are you really going out in your pyjamas?" John asked, sounding less like he was questioning it, and more like he was expressing his disapproval through the form of a question.

"Urgent case, remember?" Sherlock answered, going out into the street and signalling a taxi.   
Just before he got in, he looked back up at the window of 221B. Jim waved farewell, before disappearing from sight.

It was strange. Jim was strange. He was acting strange.   
Sherlock had actually been taken aback by Jim's implication of want a goodbye kiss. He dreaded it, but it seemed they were going to have to talk about what it was they had between them.   
Whilst Sherlock had simply considered it as sex - apparently Jim considered it as... Well, he considered it as bed sharing, goodbye kisses and teasing arse-slaps.

In all honesty, Sherlock could perhaps quite easily learn to enjoy such things - but he didn't know if he wanted to enjoy such things with _him_.   
Did he really want Jim Moriarty?   
The man who'd killed innocent people for his game, who'd threatened to kill Sherlock's only friend, who'd committed countless crimes which would terrify regular people. Yet also the man who'd manage to prove himself as ( _possibly_ ) intellectually ( _maybe_ ) superior to ( _perhaps_ ) Sherlock, who'd entertained Sherlock like nothing else could, who'd made Sherlock feel things no one else could make him feel.   
He was spectacular, Sherlock would give him that. However, he couldn't help but battle with his emotions which he felt toward him, if any such emotions existed.

Sherlock leant back against the leather seat of the taxi. He needed to clear his head if he was going to get any work done on the case...  
(Also, it'd be good if he could listen to what Lestrade was telling him instead of thinking about his sex life...)


	8. A Deep Breath

"Why aren't there any officers?" John asked, looking around the crime scene.  
They were in some secluded woods, and it appeared to only be the three of them - and the body.

"It's out of hours. They'll be back in about half an hour, which is when I need you two to go," Lestrade replied, lifting up the sheet so that Sherlock could inspect the body. John furrowed his brow. He looked around once more; they were definitely alone.

"Why on earth are we here out of hours?" John questioned.

"Because everyone thinks he's a fraud," Lestrade answered casually, standing beside John to wait for Sherlock to finish.  
Sherlock's head darted up.

"Got something?" Lestrade asked.

"No, just it'd completely slipped my mind that the entire country hates me..." He stated. It didn't seem to bother him overly, and he immediately went back to looking over the body. "I should probably sort that out with Jim..." He muttered, poking the victims clothes a little as he spoke.

Lestrade vaguely nodded, before turning to John.  
"Er, Jim, then? That's... That's a thing?" He asked. John had somehow forgotten that he and Molly still didn't know about Moriarty.

"Oh, yeah, it is, yeah. He was, um, I think he was nervous about telling us..." John replied, putting his hands in his pockets. Lestrade nodded again.

"Fair enough... I think they'll be good," He stated.

"Pardon?" John questioned, not quite understanding what Lestrade meant.

It was odd, talking to Lestrade. The two rarely had actual conversations, simply small-talk whilst Sherlock investigated a crime scene.

"They're both utterly ridiculous: makes 'em good for each other, I think," He explained. It was true; Sherlock and Moriarty were almost equal with pure ridiculousness. One was a 'consulting detective' and 'high-functioning sociopath', and the other was a serial killer and a total psychopath.  
Admittedly, John had always though the two as two sides of the same coin. Both too clever for their own good; one devoting their life to enforcing law, the other to breaking it. They were practically the same, besides to which side they played the game on.

"And the body is the only evidence?" Sherlock asked, standing up to look over the desolate forest surrounding them.

"That we could find," Lestrade answered with a nod.  
Sherlock took a moment to think, before setting out to inspect the ground surrounding the area which the body was found.   
"It'll mean Moriarty won't cause as trouble, too," Lestrade stated, returning to his conversation with John.

"How so?" John asked, not quite seeing how it would mean that.

"He'll want to keep Sherlock happy, won't he? Plus, Sherlock isn't easy - he'll be too busy dealing with him to kill people," Lestrade replied.

"I hope so," John muttered. He didn't think that'd be the case at all. Moriarty had proved on multiple occasions that committing devastating crimes took near to zero effort from him himself.  
He'd set a web so big and so well calculated and crafted, that a single text from him could create colossal damage worldwide.  
Moriarty had many strings which he could pull at as he pleased, and it was unlikely that Sherlock would be able to stop that.

John had been able to tell from the start that Sherlock admired Moriarty - though perhaps he'd misinterpreted in what way. If anyone was going to be 'too busy dealing' with someone, it'd be Sherlock. It seemed immensely unlikely that Moriarty was the type to 'change his ways for love' or whatever else happened in the fairytales, and Sherlock didn't appear willing to give him up easily.  
Moriarty's passion for criminality was strong, and would likely be the end of them. Which was one of the reasons John had been reluctant to approving of it.

In the end: Sherlock would either have to let go, or be pulled down with him.

John knew either one would tear him apart, but Sherlock was an adult; if he thought the consequences would be balanced by the experience: then so be it.

"Killer went this way!" Sherlock called from a couple dozen feet away. John and Lestrade looked at each other, before setting off to follow Sherlock.

"How'd you know?" Lestrade asked Sherlock as they caught up.

"Tracks. They often think they're further away enough to get lazy..." Sherlock mumbled, more focused on following whatever tracks that he could see and John (and judging by his face, Lestrade also) couldn't.

"Sherlock," John started, pausing to make sure Sherlock was going to listen, "how long will Moriarty be staying with us?"

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him.

"Just curious." John had to ask. Having a serial killer about simply wasn't ideal.

"Must we talk about it right this second?" Sherlock questioned in return, making a small motion to the apparently-there-'tracks'.  
John shrugged in response. They didn't have to talk about it then and there, but there wasn't much else that needed to be discussed - and who knew when they'd next be without Moriarty in the next room over.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, returning to leading the way as before.

"Rough estimate?" John asked.  
Lestrade had taken to having an intense interest in 'casually' staring at the trees around them, and pretending he wasn't there.

"Does it really matter how long he'll stay?" Sherlock was using the tone he did when he didn't want to talk anymore. It was same tone he always used when his romantic life was concerned.

"Well, sort of. I don't really want to be strapped to a bomb again anytime soon, if you can understand that," John replied, getting a little sick of Sherlock avoiding matters on Moriarty.

"What reason would he have to do that?" Sherlock was getting a little sick of John poking at matters on Moriarty.

"What reason would he have _not_ to do that?" John asked rhetorically.  
He wouldn't put it past Moriarty to suddenly decide he wanted to blow John up in an attempt to impress Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to give a moments thought on John's question.

"Fair enough..." He muttered.

Silence settled.

"So...?" John ushered.  
Sherlock abruptly stopped, turning to John once more.

"Why are you suddenly so concerned about this?" He asked.  
Lestrade muttered something about following the tracks, and briskly continued walking. 

"I'm trying get you to realise that you haven't a clue what you're doing!" John replied.

"I know what I'm doing!" Sherlock argued, looking at John as if he'd suggested the queen was a penguin.

"Ok, let's pretend I'm a complete stranger. How do you introduce Moriarty to me?" John questioned. Sherlock looked at him funny, clearly not understanding quite what he was asking. "Hello, this is Jim Moriarty, he's my..." John started as example.

"He's my... My..." Sherlock trailed off, looking at the ground.

He had no idea.

"Exactly my point, Sherlock," John stated. "You need to stop, and actually think about this."

They stood there for a while. Sherlock thinking, hopefully, about what John had just said.

"John, I know what I'm doing," He stated. "I just... I just can't explain what it is."

"Sherlock, for f-"

"John, please!" Sherlock interrupted. He took a deep breath, lightly brushing his hands on his dressing gown. "I want this, alright?" He was averting his eyes, showing his was either anxious or embarrassed (or both).

"You're sure?" John asked. If Sherlock was sure, then John wouldn't have a problem.

"Yes, I'm sure. He's... I'm sure." Sherlock couldn't focus his eyes, they wandered all over the place: his shoes (which definitely didn't suit his pyjamas - formal leather shoes rarely did), the trees, the sky. All the while, a shade of pink tinted his cheeks.

"Fine." John nodded.

"Really?" Sherlock questioned.

"If it's what you want Sherlock - if you're _really_ sure, then... What Mycroft said, I suppose." He shrugged.

"Don't bring up Mycroft, it dampens my mood," Sherlock muttered, turning back to his tracks. Just like that, he was back to work like before.

It was hard to get Sherlock to face his emotions, but when he did - he often pretended immediately after that it never happened. Which was what he was doing that very moment. Despite it, John was still quite proud of himself. He'd managed to get Sherlock to admit how he feels, more or less.  
Though Sherlock didn't count on it: John reckoned Moriarty would be staying with them for a while. After all, they both seemed utterly infatuated with one another.


	9. A Vague Theory

Sherlock aggressively put his coat on it's hook, scowling.  
"Sherlock!" John called, running up the stairs after Sherlock. He'd been trying the whole way home to make Sherlock feel better, but it hadn't worked. It was quite rare that solving a case would put Sherlock in such a foul mood; however, if the case was deemed a waste of time, it was almost assured.

"It wasn't clever! It wasn't thought-through! It wasn't calculated! It was just a waste of bloody time!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation.   
As it had turned out, the killer hadn't covered his tracks, the wind had. In fact, he'd simply left the corpse, gone a bit deeper into the woods, and killed himself. Nothing was unique about it... It was a pathetic case!

"You saved Greg from having to spend time investigating later," John offered.

"By spending _my_ time! It was-... Argh!" Sherlock slumped into his chair, folding his arms tightly. John shook his head, before turning to go into the kitchen. He physically jumped upon seeing Jim leant on the table.

"Jesus..." He muttered, clutching his heart. "I forgot you were here..."

Jim replied by sticking out his bottom lip and tilting his head a little.

"Case was foul then?" Jim questioned disinterestedly, and turning his attention to Sherlock. "You know, I heard there might be a body in a back alley near Brick Lane..." He stated with a tone that implied that he was completely sure about the body, and the 'might' was simply for effect.

"Who put it there?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"That's cheating," Jim replied, putting on a disappointed pout. "Oh alright, it was me." He broke into a grin. "-a." He added, eyeing John: making the 'me' sound more like the name Mia. John gave him a disapproving look, before returning to whatever it was he was doing. Once he'd turned, Jim winked at Sherlock.

"I'm hungry." Sherlock announced, standing up.

"I think we have bits and bobs in the fridge-" John started.

"Let's eat out," Sherlock interrupted, smiling broadly.

"Or not..." John muttered to himself. "What are you in the mood for, then?" He asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment.

"Jim?" He asked. "What do want to eat?"

"Oh, I'm invited?" Jim questioned, appearing mildly surprised.

"Of course, you are technically our roommate for however many days," John answered. At that moment, Mrs Hudson made an entrance, not looking particularly happy.

"However many days? Jim, you said it'd be one day!" She stated crossly.   
When Jim had told Sherlock that 'the landlady' knew about him being there, Sherlock had sort of guessed she'd given him some speech on the etiquette of the flat or something along those lines. She often had private chats with new friends of Sherlock's.   
He'd also guessed that Jim had told some sort of lie to get Mrs Hudson to let him stay there.

"A day on Pluto is 6.4 days here on Earth." Jim shrugged innocently. Mrs Hudson didn't look impressed. "And a day on Mercury is 54.646 days."

"You're lucky that you have a good taste in music and that you do your own laundry!" Mrs Hudson went over to the sink and took the tea cup that Sherlock had pinched during the week (all of his were in the wash at the time, after some foul-smelling substance exploded everywhere in the kitchen). "But you're not staying 54.646 days without paying rent." She added as warning, before going back downstairs.

"Don't worry, I'll be gone by then," Jim said to more himself than anyone else.

"How does Chinese sound?" John asked, going into the living room to talk to Sherlock.

"No." Sherlock replied simply. He wasn't feeling up for Chinese food... "Chips!" He stated with a beaming grin. He was often feeling up for chips.

"Oh for goodness sake..." John muttered. "Alright, come on then," He ushered. Sherlock stood up to leave.

Just as Sherlock was about to put his coat back on, Jim darted in front, grabbing it from the hook. He swung it round, pulling it on as he went down the stairs.   
It took a moment for Sherlock to process what'd happened, but once he had, he hurried after Jim - protesting that the coat belonged to him.  
He just knew that John had rolled his eyes before following, but ignored it.   
He ran out into the street, looking around.

Jim was stood in the middle of the road, posing extravagantly. Understandably, a few pedestrians glanced at him oddly as they passed.   
Honestly, Sherlock was surprised no one recognised him: or if they did, they said nothing. Then again, the sunglasses he was wearing probably concealed an amount of his identity. As well as the fact that he was wearing Sherlock's deer stalker - but Sherlock didn't care about the hat like he did the coat.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock questioned, stepping into the road, smiling fondly at Jim's strange performance. Before he replied, Jim changed to a different pose.

"Art expedition. I call it: 'Of That Which Belongs To Sherlock Holmes'," He answered, putting on a more English sounding accent for the title of his 'expedition'. "His coat, his hat, and his man, all in one place - for one night, and one night only!" He announced, beckoning the non-existent crowd closer to him.

"You really don't plan to stand there all night posing, do you?" Mycroft asked, seeming to appear from thin air. Sherlock's smile immediately dropped.

"The Iceman!" Jim exclaimed happily, holding his arms out in celebration. "Thank goodness!"

"You've been drinking." Mycroft stated curtly. Sherlock turned to Jim. How had he not noticed that?   
Since Mycroft had said it, it was perfectly obvious... Slightly glassy eyes, hazy expression, messier appearance in clothing...   
Why hadn't he noticed that?

Jim rolled his eyes in response to Mycroft's statement.   
"Am I being a bad influence on your baby brother?" He pouted.

"Yes." Mycroft replied.

"You should see what we do in the bedroom..." Jim whispered, lowering his sunglasses to wink at Mycroft.

"I really shouldn't," Mycroft argued, grimacing.

"Speaking of the bedroom: I brought some toys home," Jim said to Sherlock. He was wearing a smirk which showed he knew _exactly_ how inappropriate a time he'd brought up such a matter.

Sherlock glanced at John and Mycroft, who were looking at him with matching looks of surprise/horror/disgust/shock and all the rest of it.

"I... Um, that's nice." Sherlock mumbled, awkwardly clearing his throat half-way through.

"It will be," Jim replied. He displayed his wrists, putting them together, as if an imaginary rope had them tied.

Sherlock's mind flooded with thoughts of the sound of his heavy breaths, the taste of his skin, the smell of his sweat; thoughts of how it felt to be close to him, to be in his embrace, to be against him inch by inch.  
He tried to put them aside.  
Not now, he thought.

"You like that, don't you?" Jim's eyes were alight, he knew exactly how much he'd gotten to Sherlock. "I thought you would."

"Now isn't the time, Jim," Sherlock muttered, looking back to Mycroft and John. "Mycroft, why are you here?" He asked, not appreciating the presence of his brother holding up them getting chips.

"I came to warn you that your 'bedroom buddy' has been out causing trouble. A body was found near Brick Lane, in fact. I seem to remember you agreeing to take responsibility for such things?" Mycroft replied. Sherlock looked back to Jim. He was slowly strolling down the street, not interested in the conversation. Sherlock's coat hung mid-way down his calves, which made him out a lot smaller than he was. It made Sherlock smile a little.

"So you're going to arrest me for a crime you can't even prove was him?" Sherlock asked rhetorically.

"No. I'm going to tell you to keep a tighter leash on him. This," He motioned between to the space between Sherlock and Jim, "may as well have some practical purpose," He stated.

"You want me to monitor him and stop him from killing people?" Sherlock questioned, unimpressed.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded with a smile. "Besides, it would do him some good, since you could stop him from drinking away his woes," He added, before making his toward the black car he'd clearly come in.

"What do you mean-?" John started, but Mycroft ignored him - got into the car, and departed. "Helpful. Thank you." John then turned back to Sherlock, visibly annoyed at Mycroft.   
They looked at each other for a moment. Unusually, they managed to have a silent conversation, completely via looks, about Jim.   
It went along the lines of John asking what Mycroft had meant, Sherlock replying he didn't really know but had a vague theory, John asking him to share, and Sherlock motioning that he'd do so later.   
They then went to catch up with Jim, whom had managed to get halfway down the street at his incredibly slow wandering pace.

Sherlock's vague theory, wasn't as vague as he'd made out. In fact, he was almost certain he was right. It didn't take long for him to piece together that Jim drinking and Jim trying to turn a gun on himself the day before were strongly linked actions. Unfortunately, part of the link was to do with Sherlock - and his remaining uncertainty about Jim and himself wasn't going to improve the situation...


End file.
